


In the Doorway

by Curator



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e20 Investigations, F/M, Not A Happy Ending, Post-Episode: s07e25 Endgame (Star Trek: Voyager), Split Perspective, everyone is sad, references episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curator/pseuds/Curator
Summary: Tom Paris chimes at the door of Kathryn Janeway’s apartment.
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/Tom Paris
Comments: 18
Kudos: 32





	In the Doorway

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago and finally decided to post it.

The door slides open and she says, “Does B’Elanna know you’re here?” 

Not the banality of “hello” or the polite formality of “how nice of you to drop by.”

She’s always seen right through him.

“My wife is very busy,” he says.

Behind her is a living room that’s suspiciously clean, as if she barely spends any time in her apartment. 

Or maybe she, too, still places objects based on where they would fall if enemy fire disabled shields or if inertial dampers went offline. Maybe she, too, is jittery at night, mind and body truly awake only when starlight shines through the windows. 

“It’s been a while,” she says, making no movement to let him step inside. 

It’s been two years. 

Since he saw her at _Voyager’s_ welcome home party, feted by admirals and smiling on the dance floor as the Federation President stepped on her toes. 

It’s been seven years, three months. 

Since he agreed to take her plan further, to leave the ship and gather intelligence onboard a Kazon vessel — a mission he doubted he would survive.

It’s been seven years, three months, two days.

Since the last time her hand rested on his forearm as they discussed covert strategy, the last time her lips crooked upward at his lingering glances, the last time her voice dipped low and slow — and he was sure it had nothing to do with the late hour. 

“Sure has,” he says, his belly burning with resentment toward a wife who catastrophizes their every fight into accusations he’s going to leave. 

He loves his wife. 

But he understands John Torres more every day. 

Blue eyes fix on his and she says, “What is it you want from me, Tom?”

He wants to be a pawn, manipulated again, flirted with just enough to act against his better judgment.

He wants his chest to fill with pride that someone trusts him, depends on him.

He wants to be 70,000 light years away, at the start of it all.

But he has nothing to offer in return.

“Never mind,” he says. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

He turns, and hears her door slide closed as he walks away.

***

The door slides open and his blue eyes glint with a hunger she’s become well-acquainted with since returning home.

Not from him, of course. 

But he’s far from the first married man to chime at her door.

“Does B’Elanna know you’re here?” she says. 

If his marriage is over, open, or on the rocks, she’ll let him in. 

But his back stiffens in some sort of righteousness. 

“My wife is very busy,” he says. 

He should seem out of place in a hallway instead of a corridor, on Earth instead of a starship. She met him on Earth, in New Zealand, a lifetime ago, and his lips had curled in just the right combination of sassy and sweet. 

She’s a sucker for sassy and sweet.

He frowns now, like he’s become used to frowning.

She should send him home to the wife she knows would be particularly betrayed by abandonment.

But her feet are frozen and she says, “It’s been a while.”

It’s been two years. 

Since she watched him try to convince B’Elanna to dance at _Voyager’s_ welcome home party. A ridged forehead shook, arms crossed, and he had flopped into a chair. 

It’s been seven years, three months. 

Since she knew damn well she was lying when she told herself that sending him on a dangerous, covert mission proved she had no feelings for him aside from professional concern. 

It’s been seven years, three months, two days.

Since the last night she could justify private time with him, which was just as well. The more their conversation strayed from reports and strategizing, the more his glances lingered on her lips and chest — the closer she came to giving in to what she wanted so badly. 

“Sure has,” he says, his voice gravelly with resentment.

She wonders what she did to piss him off.

She’s left him alone.

No matter how many times she’s ached to know how he’s doing. 

But he’s clearly unhappy, and if she can help … as a friend….

“What is it you want from me, Tom?”

She knows what she wants. 

She wants him to admit truths about a marriage her instincts tell her isn’t going well. 

She wants him to turn on that Paris charm, to flirt with her the way he used to.

She wants him to help her forget the last nine years, to take her back to a sunlit day in Auckland when she’d had to remind herself that she was engaged to another man, when she could feel warmth from the sun and believe she had a place in a world that took day and night for granted, as if it could be possible to feel truly alive in both. 

But the hunger in his eyes has crystallized into ice.

“Never mind,” he says. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

He turns, and she slides her door closed so she won’t have to watch him walk away.


End file.
